The artist labors while he may, But finds at best too brief the day; And, tho' his works outlast the time And nation that they make sublime, He feels and sees that Nature knows Nothing of time in what she does, But has a leisure infinite Wherein to do her work aright.

Life is the wave's deep whisper on the shore Of a great sea beyond.

The noblest works of human art and pride show that their makers were not satisfied.

All governments, Books, customs, buildings, railways, ships, and all the stark realities that men have made, Are but imagination's utterances.

Our yesterdays Are like a lonely and a ruined land Wherein a breeze of recollection sighs-- A fading land to which is no return.

The artist labors while he may, But finds at best too brief the day; And, tho' his works outlast the time And nation that they make sublime, He feels and sees that Nature knows Nothing of time in what she does, But has a leisure infinite Wherein to do her work aright.

Though Duty's face is stern, her path is best: They sweetly sleep who die upon her breast.